Gala Day
by spikala
Summary: The GAR opens up its base for Gala Day. Unfortunately, some of the fundraising ideas throw the clones just a a bit outside their comfort zones... Risque crackfic that is definitely T rated. Snippet 4: Play nicely, Mr Wolffe. ON HIATUS.
1. The Auction Block

_Warning for excessive fangirliness and crackfic. __Disney owns Star Wars and I'm fairly sure they would sue me for doing this to their characters, so yay for pennames.  
_

* * *

**The Auction Block**

.

It was enough to make you wish you were back on Geonosis.

Right now, Clone Captain Rex was willing to trade his right arm for one of his blasters and a pair of fatigues—wonderfully long, sleeved, high-collared fatigues. He was still wearing his tight-fitting exercise shorts, but the way that some of these females were eyeing him, he half-thought that he might as well've been wearing nothing at all. And he wasn't even on the auction stage yet.

The sun beat down on the exposed area in front of the GAR barracks. The parade ground, where just yesterday sections of troopers clad in white armour had been marching up and down in unison, had become a seething morass of civilians—mostly women, Rex noticed—who had come to the Grand Army's Open Day. The transparisteel shower attraction had proved very popular, but right now, the biggest crowd was in front of the auction block.

To one side of the small raised dais, Rex eyed the crowd, trying not to show his apprehension as he waited beside the steps that led to the stage. In front of the platform, the bidding was getting nasty. Apparently ARC troopers commanded a premium. Rex willed himself not to flinch, to meet all those curious, speculative stares when in reality he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

The auctioneer's voice sounded out across the crowd. "Going once, going twice, and… sold! To the lady in blue!"

There was a smattering of begrudging applause. Rex noticed that more than one woman was looking daggers at a lithe blonde human in a light blue body sheath. The blonde in question pranced up to the stage, snagged Fives by the arm, and dragged him away from the covetous crowd.

The auctioneer started her patter afresh. "And here we have it, ladies and gentlebeings, the finale, the cream of the crop…"

Rex lost the thread of the sales spiel as one of the gala assistants came at him with a spray can. Rex threw up his arms, but it was too late; his bare torso was covered in scented oil. He scowled at the girl, but she just giggled at him. "You're up next, good-looking!"

"…the one and only—even in an army of millions—the dashing Captain of the Five-Hundred-First—Clone Captain Rex!" There was a deafening roar from the crowd and annoying-oil-girl gave him a shunt towards the steps.

He was out of options.

Rex gulped. No question about it: he'd take Geonosis any day of the week.


	2. The Torture of Sergeant Coric

_You know how I said the last chapter was a bit fangirly... This one is just blatant fangirl-service. You have been warned! :D  
_

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**The Torture of Sergeant Coric**

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Enough stalling. It was time. Distasteful as the whole experience might be, it had to be done.

Sergeant Coric, second in command of Torrent Company, sighed. He had to set a good example, even if right now he felt like shooting someone simply so he'd have an excuse to head to the med bay and stay there until this whole fracas was over. "Okay boys—off with the shirts."

The men hesitated, swapping puzzled looks amongst themselves. In the end, it was Denal who voiced what they were probably all thinking. "Uh… sir?"

Coric crossed his arms and fixed them all with his best no-nonsense stare. "You heard me. You lot are on chocolate duty and that means you'll be in your shorts for the majority of this event."

Denal persisted. "But sir, isn't this against regulations to be in a state of undress around civilians as per section twelve, sub-section four—" He blanched when he saw Coric's glare.

Coric felt instantly bad. Taking out his frustration on the younger clone wasn't going to help matters. It wasn't the poor lad's fault that some hair-brained senator conned the Grand Army's command into helping with the war fundraising efforts.

He sighed. "Sorry trooper, but this one has come down from the highest levels."

"Why are we doing this?" Jesse grumbled.

"For the Republic." Coric didn't believe it one bit, but he needed the men to cooperate. The gala would be starting in a few hours and they needed enough stock on hand to keep the civilians happy. "Always for the Republic. And if makes you feel any better, I'll be joining you in the booth."

That seemed to appease the naysayers. There was a rustling and patches of tan skin started to emerge as the men started reluctantly stripping off the top part of their body gloves. Coric folded his top neatly and added it to the stack.

Right. Coric reached for the spray gun and started coating everyone's freshly washed torsos with the disinfectant. He handed over the gun and tried hard not to yelp as Jesse squirted the cold mist over his abs. After a few seconds, the mist had evaporated and they were good to go.

He consulted his datapad, which contained instructions on how to carry out his… _assignment_. He beckoned Jesse over and picked up the brush and pot. "Everyone pay close attention. You'll need to know how to do this yourselves. Now, Jesse—hold still."

==o0o==

The gala was… something else. Coric groped for words to describe the chaos and failed miserably. He also failed miserably at not flinching as a tickly paintbrush crossed over his oblique muscles. This set the woman off in another round of high-pitched giggles.

"My apologies, ma'am," he said, trying hard not to add a blush to the list of embarrassments that had happened to him so far this morning. "It won't happen again."

She grinned wryly. "Uh huh. Sure. I think you said that less than a minute ago, soldier."

Coric felt his cheeks heat.

The paintbrush resumed its tortuous journey across his midriff. He felt tiny beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he fought the urge to flinch, to tense, to suck his stomach away from that evil brush, and to give in and laugh uncontrollably. He'd already lost six men so far to laughter, almost a quarter of his workforce; he couldn't afford to be the next casualty. Who knew that the abdominal region could be so… tickly. There was definitely no mention of this in his medic training.

Warm chocolate coated most of his chest and stomach, the brown goo glistening as it traced the ridges of his muscles. The torture wouldn't last much longer though. His latest customer was almost finished, adding the last few layers before she could peel off her edible treat. Coric was fairly sure that there were easier ways to get one's chocolate fix than going to all the trouble of coating someone in it, but judging from the throng at the table, efficiency wasn't one of the aspects that civilians factored in when looking for chocolate-based consumables.

Finally it was over. With a bit of help from Jesse, the woman managed to pry the chocolate mould of his abdominals off him and marched away into the crowds, clutching her prize. Coric breathed out a sigh of relief, slipping into the small tent that had been set up as a refuge from the chocolate-hungry crowd. Jesse, who had turned out to be incredibly ticklish and was now support crew rather than a participant, handed him a towelette and Coric started scrubbing the last traces of brown from his stomach.

"How's everything going?" Coric asked, trying to get a stray streak off his forearm.

"We've exceeded expected sales by sixteen percent and chewed through all our stock. No more chocolate abs," Jesse reported.

Good. They should finish up soon then. Coric was more than happy for life to return to normal. He never wanted to see a paintbrush or chocolate again. Ever. But his happy fantasies of retreating to his medbay office were rudely dispelled by Jesse.

"Demand hasn't dropped though, so we've just had to increase the number of 'make your own' stations. Sorry, sarge, but you're up again. You've been booked out for the next two hours."

Two hours. Two more hours of ticklish torture. Coric's groan was more than a little heartfelt as Jesse began coating him once more with icy, food-grade disinfectant spray. This was worse than Ryloth. Worse than Christophsis. At least the Seps were just trying to kill you, not tickle you to death.

"If we're all clones," Coric complained, "how come I get to be the less tickly one?"

Jesse just grinned and gave him a shove out the tent. "All done. Go get 'em, sarge."

"Sadist." Right then and there, Sergeant Coric decided that Jesse couldn't possibly be a brother of his.

Another woman approached him, paintbrush in hand. Coric tried to smile nicely, but couldn't keep from trying to flinch away from the brush. It was going to be _long _two hours. He'd take Christophsis any day of the week.

* * *

___Big thanks to Jade Max, emjalen, and Amaryllis Complex (who came up with the "For the Republic" line) for all helping spawn the idea behind these ficlets._

___Edit: It seems a number of people are wondering if this is the end of the story. My reply is, I don't know. I've got a number of ideas for more "Gala Day" snippets chewing at my brain, however I'm fairly short on time to work on them. So I can't make any promises for more chapters. I would like to, but sadly it's anyone's guess as to when they'll be written._


	3. The Cage

**The Cage**

.

An elbow caught Kix in the ribs, making him flinch.

"Smile!" the commander hissed at him.

Obediently, Kix rearranged his features into an approximation of a smile. He suspected it looked more like a grimace, but it seemed to appease Commander Fox, because his ribs were left alone.

"Sir," Kix said out the corner of his mouth, "I don't think I can keep this up much longer."

The commander of the Coruscant Guard half-turned and caught the gaze of one of their overseers. "Can we get a break here?"

After a brief consultation over the comms, the guard nodded. His partner set up a shield to give them a moment of privacy. One of the guards, the one that Kix was sourly calling Screw One in his head, passed them water pouches through the bars.

"Can't we come out for a bit to stretch?" Kix complained. "We're going to start cramping up at this rate."

After more discussion between the guards and some pointed glares from both Kix and Commander Fox, the gate at the rear of the enclosure creaked open. Commander Fox was out like a shot; Kix was right on his heels. Screw One was hanging close, just in case they decided to make a run for it, Kix thought uncharitably, and we can't have that. Were it not for the fact he was stuck in the cage with Commander Fox and under constant surveillance, Kix would've tried to pick the lock a long time ago.

He took a swig of the water, swilling it around his mouth before discretely spitting it into one of the drains that were dotted over the area. No point spraying microbes everywhere when there was a receptacle handy. Screw Two was ready with the mouthwash. Kix accepted the bottle gratefully, taking care to rinse his mouth out thoroughly. Beside him, Commander Fox was gargling with more mouthwash, flecks of pink foam escaping his lips.

Kix spat out his mouthful and decided that he needed more than one rinse. The Commander wasn't thinking along the same lines as him though, and struck up a conversation with Screw Two. He obviously wasn't aware of just how unhygienic and potentially dangerous their role was.

"Having fun?"

Startled, Kix almost swallowed his mouthful of the acrid liquid. He hastily spat it out and turned back to his visitor. He stared blankly at the spectre. It took him a beat to work out who it was under all the muck.

"Hardcase, is that you?"

White teeth flashed in amongst the grey muck. "In the flesh."

"Why are you—"

"I'm in the pit, remember?" Hardcase shrugged and started rummaging in a pack that Kix hadn't noticed. "Anyway, I've got something for you." He held out a small square of flimsy, holding it with the tips of his fingers to avoid muddying it.

Kix took it, marvelling at just how messy Hardcase was. "What is it?"

Another grin. "You'll see."

Kix turned it over. There was an adhesive patch on side and on the other… He balked. "No way. No, no, no."

Hardcase's grin got even wider. "Everyone's been isssued one to wear at all times. Only us guys in the pit don't get one—it'd never been seen under all this mess."

"No." Kix was feeling humiliated enough as is. "No."

"No—what?"

Commander Fox had overheard them. Kix felt like sinking into the ground. Hardcase saluted, and Kix followed suit. The commander touched three fingers to his temple, frowning.

Hardcase offered up another square. "This one is for you, sir."

Commander Fox inspected it, brightening. "Excellent idea, very clever. One for every man is it?"

"Yes, sir," Hardcase said.

"You have been given yours, I see," Fox said to Kix, who nodded unhappily. "Carry on then, trooper." Commander Fox dismissed Hardcase, who went off to deliver the rest of his payload.

The commander fastened his name-tag to his chest. Fantastic Fox, the little square proudly proclaimed.

"Time," said Screw Two, ushering them back towards their enclosure.

"Better put that on," Commander Fox said to Kix. It was clear from his tone there was no wiggle room here. Kix nodded and clipped the hateful thing to his shirt, ducking under the crossbeam of the door and followed the other man into the pen. Flat strips of artistically rusted durasteel crisscrossed each other, dividing the walls into squares just wide enough for the lower half of their faces.

It wasn't quite as bad as being in a fire fight on some Outer Rim backwater. After all, no one was hurt and no one had died, but Kix had decided in the first ten minutes of this 'job' that he would rather do latrine duty for the whole GAR by himself, for a whole standard month, than be in this ridiculous 'kissing cage' a minute longer. Sadly, he'd come to that conclusion almost three hours ago.

"Ready?" Screw One asked.

Kix wasn't, but he wasn't the ranking clone. Commander Fox nodded and Screw Two deactivated the screen. Just like that, they were back on display.

The crowd surged. Only the presence of Screws One and Two kept them in two managable lines. Kix didn't like to think what might happen if two armoured clones weren't watching over them. A female Weequay pressed herself to the slats in front of Kix, grabbing his wrists through the bars and stopping him from moving back.

"My, you are a handsome one," she purred. Then she caught sight of his _echuta, stoopa, koochoo_ name-tag. "Oooh! Kissable Kix," she giggled, flicking her braids over a shoulder. "Just my luck!" She started leaning in.

Kix heartily wished he was a thousand miles away, or at very least, hidden away in sickbay with the blast doors fused shut.

Sadly for him—and luckily for the women-folk of Coruscant—that wasn't to be.

* * *

_A/N: Kix is swearing in Huttese. I figured that normal clones wouldn't know Mandalorian, but as Skywalker is fluent in Huttese, it makes sense that he'd use it and that the clones of the 501__st__ would pick on the Huttese swear words. _Echuta_ = a very insulting expletive used as a curse word,_ stoopa_ = stupid, _koochoo_ = idiot. Cheers to Wookiepedia for the language help.  
_


	4. Play nicely, Mr Wolffe

_This one's for **Impoeia**, who kindly gave me the inspiration for it. I highly recommend checking out her fantastic stories._

_Just a wee continuity note, this takes place before the episode "Mercy Mission" where Wolffe had to chaperone Threepio and R2._

* * *

**Play Nicely, Mr Wolffe**

.

Wolffe adjusted his cuffs and sighed. No doubt about it, this was one of his worst assignments of the war.

He was a soldier. Find the enemy and kill them, that was his motto. Nice and simple. Not like this. For one thing, he was expected to be nice. Wolffe didn't _do_ nice. But General Plo had made this a personal request, not to mention he'd been given a direct order from GAR high command. Wolffe sighed again. There was a war going on. He should be out there fighting, not here on Coruscant trying to exchange small talk with senators and civilians. At this rate, he'd end up on _humanitarian_ missions. He suppressed a shudder.

"Commander Wolffe."

Wolffe spun, hands going to non-existent blaster hilts, before he realised who it was that had found his hideaway. "Commander Cody. Sorry, sir, you startled me."

The commander was also wearing what passed for clothing at high-class Coruscanti functions. There was a splash of colour from a small kerchief in 212th yellow tucked into his breast pocket, but otherwise the contrast between them was staggering.

Cody had also noticed it. "You're looking pretty flash there, Wolffe. I'm impressed she managed to find you something the same colour as your cybernetic."

Wolffe shrugged, watching as Cody circled him. "I didn't have much of a say in the matter, sir. I didn't realise these things came in different colours until we got here."

"It even looks metallic," Cody said, apparently not paying Wolffe any attention. "I didn't know clothing could do that."

Wolffe wasn't impressed. If the civilians had spent as much time and effort on the war as they had in finding him this, what was it called, a suit?—then maybe the war would already be won. "If it's all the same to you, commander, I'd much rather be wearing the same as everyone else."

Cody snorted. It was an odd and strangely undignified sound coming from a Tier Four officer. "You obviously haven't been out there in a while, Wolffe."

Hmmm, the commander's bait—and it obviously was that, bait—sounded interesting, but Wolffe wasn't too keen on leaving his hiding place. He'd spotted it almost as soon as he'd entered the party with his escort, but she'd been determined to show him off to a whole parade of random people who were apparently very important, but were also exceedingly dull. Not being allowed to carry his weapons had only compounded Wolffe's ill-humour, but after what felt like an age, he'd managed to slip away from the senator and wedge himself behind the column. A bushy potted plant hid him from view. It was such a good hiding place. If only Commander Cody hadn't found him.

The marshal commander spotted his reluctance. "Come on, Wolffe. Better go give the men a boost." Cody straightened his tie and slid out of the small space.

The men? Surely they'd be fine without him? After all, _they_ weren't expected to talk and endure endless prattling about his eye and 'oh how brave he was' and women bumping up against him. For _them_, it had been a volunteers-only assignment. Naturally, the whole Wolfpack had volunteered.

Wolffe sighed again—he seemed to be doing that a lot this evening—and followed Cody. What greeted him when he slid free of the huge plant fronds wasn't at all what he was expecting.

The men, who up until now had been wearing black suit ensembles very much like Marshal Commander Cody's, were now shirtless. Oh, they were still holding their platters of food, and flashing cheeky grins at every young woman who got near, but the white shirts they'd been wearing earlier had vanished. They had on their black pants, their fake lepi-ears and their black ties, but no shirt. He cast around, looking for his men. Across the room, he could see Sinker's distinctive shock of fair hair surrounded by a cluster of women. Then he caught sight of two stripes of red hair nearby.

Wolffe stalked over to Boost, who was reclining on a couch and being fed morsels from his own tray by a curvy red-head. Both of them looked up as Wolffe approached. Boost looked blissful and completely out of it. The woman seemed delighted to have _two_ men within striking distance, pouting prettily up at Wolffe.

"_Wild_ Wolffe?" she purred out, reading his karking nametag. "My my…"

He offered her his best 'nice' smile. "My apologies, ma'am. I need to have a word with Boost here."

He towed the trooper away before she could open her mouth to protest. "What's the idea, Boost?" Wolffe growled out. "What the kriff happened to your shirt?"

Boost still looked a bit dazed from whatever the woman had been doing to him. "Sinker and Senator Breemu thought it would get the guests more enthused about our cause."

"Here's my wild wolf!"

Speak of the devil. Wolffe closed his eyes, composing himself, as he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind. Boost took advantage of his commander's distraction and slipped back to the couch where the redhead was waiting.

Wolffe turned. "Senator Breemu."

"I wondered where you'd gotten to." She smiled at up him. "But it doesn't matter now—I've found you."

She started to pass him a glass of bubbling, green champagne, then paused. "I must say, commander, you're awfully overdressed at the moment."

Wolffe glanced around and realised he was the only clone that still wore a shirt. He hesitated, but the senator held out her free hand expectantly.

"How about I trade you the champagne for your shirt?"

Well, she was a senator. And he was supposed to follow her lead. After all, the Kaminoans had never covered a scenario like this in command school. Wolffe peeled off the grey jacket and undershirt as best he could. The senator kept getting in the way, sliding her hands up under the shirt and across his chest. Despite her 'help', he succeeded in getting free of the fiddly, finicky clothing and was soon as bare-chested as the next man.

True to her word, the senator passed him the glass of champagne. His discarded clothing was whisked away by a droid. The way the senator was eyeing him though… Wolffe didn't blush. It wasn't the manly thing to do; not for the commander of the Wolfpack. So if his cheeks were redder than before, it was because the thermostat in this place was up far too high. He briefly contemplated making a run for it and apologising to General Plo later.

Commander Cody and his senator came over to them, slamming the window of opportunity shut. Wolffe cursed his luck.

The two women exchanged greetings. "Senator Breemu, so good to see you."

"Likewise, Senator Amidala. And who might your handsome escort be?"

Wolffe noted that Cody had Senator Amidala's arm tucked into his. He too had shucked his shirt and jacket. For all of the commander's protests when this assignment was first handed out, he seemed quite comfortable with his role.

Cody's senator smiled and turned to Cody to introduce them. "Senator Breemu, this is Marshal Commander Cody. Commander Cody is in charge of the 7th Sky Corps and works closely with Master Kenobi. He has kindly consented to be my escort for this evening. Cody, this is Senator Breemu from Humbarine, and her escort…"

Wolffe filled in the gap, just as Commander Cody spoke.

"Wolffe."

"Commander Wolffe; we've met already."

Senator Breemu looked from Cody to Wolffe, blinking her dark eyes at the two of them. "My, you two have been in the wars."

Wolffe tried very very hard not to frown at that, but that had to be the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, and he'd heard some pearlers from the shinies who seemed to come in all shades of idiot these days. Luckily the senator seemed not to notice and instead, touched the side of her face where Wolffe had his scar. Oh. Oh… That was what she meant.

Commander Cody grinned at her. "That we have, senator."

"What happened?" Senator Amidala asked, politeness itself.

Cody's grin deepened, taking on—to Wolffe—a wicked glint to his eyes. "Nothing terribly exciting, just a pretty scar. But Commander Wolffe, now _he's_ got a story to tell."

Wolffe gestured frantically, but the commander ignored his hand signals and kept talking. "In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't told you about Khorm before." Cody paused, only to speak even more loudly. "He faced down Dooku's assassin, Ventress, you know."

Wolffe noticed then that they were starting to attract attention from the throng of people. Both women were staring at him with wide eyes.

"It must've been terrifying, commander," Senator Amidala said.

"I'm sure Commander Wolffe wouldn't mind sharing the story," Cody said, completely straight-faced.

To Wolffe's horror, Senator Breemu clapped her hands together. "It's settled then."

She motioned at the droid in charge of the music and the sound cut out. "Can I please have everyone seated in the conversation area?" she called loudly. "Commander Wolffe is about to regale us with the tale of his encounter with Ventress."

The whole room seemed to drift towards him. Wolffe swallowed, wishing again for his pistols or even a window with a survivable drop below. Someone nudged him. It was Commander Cody.

"Couldn't have you going missing again, commander. Now play nicely," the other man hissed in his ear. "Not too graphic. Remember why we need them to open their cred accounts to the Army."

Right. Wolffe had forgotten. His audience—mostly female, but all of them affluent or well-connected—were now seated in a semi-circle around him, crammed onto plush cushions and chairs, faces upturned and gazing intently at him. Even his men had managed to get within earshot. Time to start spinning his story.

Wolffe took deep breath and began. "The Separatists had enslaved the people of Khorm, taking over the agrocite mine. That's where me and my men came in…"

* * *

_A/N: According to the Extended Universe, Wolffe lost his eye during the battle of Khorm. And this is my own headcanon reason that Wolffe ended up having to escort Threepio and R2, after he'd impressed Padme with his war stories a bit too much!  
_

_____A/N (6 July): I apologise for leaving you in the lurch, dear reader, but this story is going to be on hiatus for a few months. There are more details on my profile page, and I apologise again for leaving the story hanging. I hope to have the next update up sometime in Sept._


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